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I’ve mentioned once before on here that I’d nearly lost a friend to alcohol abuse. He was once my very best friend and also my roommate. I watched as he continued to spiral further and further out of control. It was one of the most painful experienced I’d ever endure.

I watched as he drank himself into the hospital, not once, not twice, but three times. First time was after he’d gotten blackout drunk and attempted to procure drugs in a sketchy neighborhood. He’d gotten himself beaten up soundly by some sketchy dealers.

The second time, he drank himself into a coma. No one knew where he was. His family didn’t find him until three days later, after they filed a missing persons report on him.

It was after this time that I knew I could no longer live with him. I found another room, packed my things and begged another friend to help me get out in an emergency move. I didn’t want him to know I was leaving until I was gone as, at that point, I didn’t know what he was capable of doing.

He continued to drink even more heavily after I’d escaped those living conditions. A third time you’d think you’d be the charm, he landed himself in the hospital by having a stroke – at the ripe “old” age of 36. It nearly paralyzed the right side of his face.

He continued to drink.

We lost contact completely. I never saw him again. I knew he lost two jobs. I knew he lost his house. As far as I knew, he was living with his family. I never saw him out and about. I knew he’d made several attempts at rehab. Because I was no longer seeing him out and about, I’d thought – or at least hoped – that he had one last successful bid in rehab.

I’d ask mutual friends if they’d seen or heard from him. Rumors would occasionally surface from time to time that he’d moved to Texas or New York, but no one was quite certain. Hell, I wasn’t even sure at this point whether he was even alive or dead.

Nearly five years have passed since I’d moved out, and well over three years had passed since I’d last been in contact with him.

I’d often think about him. I missed my friend. I worried for him. 

Then, on Sunday evening, I saw him. He was alone at the bar. He wasn’t drinking. He didn’t appear to be intoxicated. This was new – he has never been what you would call “functionally” alcholic. I never saw him out publicly unless he was noticeably, obviously, obnoxiously shit-faced.

I waved to him. He appeared happy to see me.

I wanted to catch up with him. Find out what’d been going on, where he’d been, how he’d been doing.

“Things are great!” he boasted, “I’m living in Spain now! I’m a fashion designer for Prada! I’m in town cos I think I’m gonna give up my citizenship in the United States. Spain is my home now. I love it there. It’s so awesome.”

The effects of the stroke were still present, but he looked and sounded as though they’d improved somewhat. Had you not known him before, you’d think he just had a really weird accent.

“Congratulations,” I said, “I’m so happy to hear you’re doing better. I’ve been so worried about you.”

“That was the past,” he replied, “We don’t talk about that. I’m living for now and for the future.”

“Wow, well,” I paused, “that’s great.”

He went on to brag that he was living in a 5-star hotel in Barcelona. He was making more money than he’d ever dreamed of. He finally had his life under control.

I went to excuse myself, “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna get a beer.”

“Can you please buy me one?” he asked.

Bullshit sirens started going off in my head.

“Are…” I paused, “Are you…” I wasn’t sure how to even ask what I needed to ask. “You haven’t quit drinking? Should you be drinking? Are you sure this is okay?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I insisted. “I’m fine.”

I’m not his mother. I’m not his doctor. I’m not his sponsor. I feel it’s not my place to tell him not to drink. That he can’t drink. That he shouldn’t drink. But I’m in the awkward position of buying a drink for him. I’m seeing my best friend whom I hadn’t seen in three years. On the one hand, of course I’d buy my friend a drink. Of course, on the other, well… y’know.

I also started to wonder why this wealthy, successful fashion designer needed ME to buy HIM a drink. Shouldn’t he be offering to buy the fucking round?!

I bought the beer. I didn’t know what else to do.

When I returned, there were a few more emotional exchanges. I reiterated how I’d missed him, and was happy to know he was okay. I asked him for a hug, for old time’s sake. As we embraced, he broke down in tears and told me how much he’d missed me.

I excused myself once again to use the restroom. When I returned, he was gone without a word.

Suddenly, I started questioning everything he’d been telling me up to this point.

“Wait a minute,” I thought to myself. “Isn’t Prada an Italian company? Isn’t ‘Milan’ actually a part of their logo? Why the fuck would he be working at Prada in Spain? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Was this all a façade? Has he completely lost his mind and is now living in some fantasy in his own head? 

Maybe there actually is an office for Prada in Barcelona. Damned if I know. I’ve searched on Google for one, but have come up empty.

I don’t know if I can ever know for sure. It breaks my heart that I still can’t trust his word. I miss my friend.